


Short Vignettes & Poems

by Jacque_le_Prince



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Gen, Poetry, Shorts, Vignette
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-03-16 08:15:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13632324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jacque_le_Prince/pseuds/Jacque_le_Prince
Summary: I've posted short stories and poems before, but this is where I'll be posting works that are just too short to stand on their own. The chapters are titled by the date I made them, and the older ones are rejected pieces I tried to submit to my high school's literature club.





	1. Do You Love Me? (Sept. 29 2015)

You say that I’m loved

Do you really love me?

Why is it that receive praise for repeating lines?

Why is it that when I speak with my own voice, no one listens?

Why is it that when I stand for others, everyone remains seated?

Why is my audience silent when I perform an original piece, but joyous when I’m in a famous play?

So I ask again, do you really love me?

Or my ability to be a vessel?

 


	2. Sprite (Jan. 16, 2015)

I am a video game character.

I'm born when the game starts and die when the credits roll.

The life I lived before the game started was but a simple program in my memory.

Every time I am reborn, the same things happen over and over again.

Sometimes the player will go a different route, but it's all the same to me.

I am a video game character.

* * *

**A/N: Even though I wrote this way back in high school, this makes me think of newer video games like Undertale and Doki Doki Literature Club, where one the the characters is aware of their existence as a video game character.**


	3. Owl & Hawk (Feb. 8 2018)

Last night, I heard an owl and hawk communicating outside of my window

What they were saying, I do not know

The hawk would hoot twice, the owl five times

Silence, then repeat

I heard it once before, on another night, when mother and I returned home

A bag of milk and juice rapped against my knees

While in the dark, mother fumbled with her keys

“Ho-Ho-Hoot!” it cried out “Hoot! Hoot!”

It came from above our heads, but the darkness concealed it fast

Our eyes could not catch it, not even a glance

Pitch black, the sky; Poor blue, the grass

No, not on this night could we catch a glance

As I hear the owl in my left ear and the hawk in the right

I wonder what I would find if I went out tonight

If I strapped on my boats to trudge through the snow

What would the birds have to show?

Were they communicating in a way only nature could tell?

Or were they the familiars of a witch chatting of potions and spells?

Were they even birds, I wondered, or perhaps a trick?

Did I stand in the palm of Stephen King as I was lured outside--

Curiosity provoked by my childish side?

Were the birds an illusion that turned me into prey--

While the true predator lurked out of sight’s way?

* * *

**A/N: This was actually something that happened to me this week. I thought it was really weird that the owl and the hawk were hooting and squawking in a consistent pattern, so I wrote about it.**


	4. Monster (Jan. 27 2018)

The walls are Breathing

The hills have Eyes

I understand now --

I’m not the only one Alive

The carpet Tickled my feet

The darkness Snickered at me --

Whilst I tiptoed carefully --

Hoping not to make a peep

How much Longer till the Sun rose --

Surely -- my blankets cannot shield me forever

The Ghoul standing in the Hall is Patient

He waits for the moment I lower my guard --

And finally take a curious Peek from under my blankets

We were both cats --

I -- the one to be killed by Curiosity

And he -- Schrodinger’s -- whose existence had not been proven to me

When a child -- adults are quick to tell you --

“There’s no such things as monsters -- they are simply not true!”

A soft lie -- that is

As nurturing as a caress

To keep our nights peaceful --

And allow us to rest

Ghosts, Ghouls, and Goblins

All real Creatures of the night

And they do not stop Haunting you --

After you’ve Grown in height

They simply adopt new names, new identities

Rejection, Abuse, Poverty, to name a few

And just like us -- these monsters have Matured, too

No longer do they Hide in the shadows --

And Whisper discreetly

They waltz down the street in bold daylight --

And do not scare us as sweetly

The walls are Breathing

The hills have Eyes

You understand now --

It was only a matter of Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For American Literature II class, I wrote a poem in the style of Emily Dickinson. She was one of my favorite authors this semester!


	5. Color Blind (Sept. 4 2018)

Kevin was a special kind of color blind. Everything to him was a single shade of gray with no blacks or whites in between. To him, the morning and night sky were the same. If the sun didn’t sting to look at, he would have stared at it like he did the moon. The only thing shaping his world were the thin lines distinguishing one shape from another. This made his world especially dangerous, since he couldn’t tell the difference between a slippery ice patch and a puddle of melted snow. Red-hot coals would look the same to him as a pile of idle rocks. Kevin wasn’t morose since he didn’t know what he was missing. His friends would try to find ways to communicate colors to him like they would with blind people. Ice was blue. Plants were green. Heating pads were red. But Kevin wasn’t blind, so all he perceived was col, waxiness, and warmth. Then, one day, Kevin had an accident. He was reaching into his utensil drawer when his hand brushed against a knife. He sat it: red. It took some time for him to recall how people described blood, but when he did, he realized that he was seeing red. Curious, he pulled against the cut to see a slither of pink, but his young mind hadn’t been taught what color flash was. In a rush, the child no longer felt pain. He had realized: “I have colors inside of me!” and with wide eyes, he took hold of the knife that pricked him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We keep writing journals in my creative writing class. Since we're not supposed to turn them in, I'm gonna be posting them here.


End file.
